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Barlowe

In the bathroom, dead, Barlowe examines his teeth. It’s either the fluorescent light or the way his eyes are now, but everything’s tinted blue, which is maybe why his teeth look so white. But no: he rubs them with a finger and they squeak. They’re the cleanest they’ve ever been.

The rest of him is indubitably rotting. No maggots, yet, but he smells like somebody peed in the maple syrup and that can’t be good. Also, his tongue appears to have rotted out.

“Hrrh hrh, brh mmrhr,” he tries. Then: “Hmm.”

Barlowe’s just realized he’s hungry, and, with surprise, for what.

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